“He writes himself,” said Ralph, out of his beard. “Letters half a mile long, and leaders, and all sorts of things. If we don’t look out he’ll have us all in.” The other members of the party looked at Bertram with alarm. Mr. Wradisley with a certain half resentment, half disgust. “Indeed,” he said; “I thought I had been so fortunate as to discover for myself a most intelligent critic--but evidently I ought to have known.” “Don’t say that,” said Bertram, “indeed I’m not here on false pretenses. I’m not a literary man afloat on the world, or making notes. Only a humble newspaper correspondent, Mrs. Wradisley, and only that when it happens to suit me, as your son knows.” “Oh, I am sure we are very highly honored,” said the lady, disturbed, “only Raaf, you should have told me, or I might have said something disagreeable about literary people, and that would have been so very--I assure you we are all quite proud of Mr. Sergeant, and still more, Mr. Bertram, to have some one to meet him whom he will--whom he is sure to--” “You might have said he was a queer fish. I think he is,” said Bertram, “but don’t suppose he knows me, or any of my sort. Raaf is only playing you a trick. I wrote something about Africa, that’s all. When one is knocking about the world for years without endless money to spend, anything to put a penny in one’s purse is good. But I can’t write a bit--except a report about Africa,” he added, hurriedly. “Oh, about Africa,” Mrs. Wradisley said, with an expression of greater ease, and there was a little relief in the mind of the family generally. Bertram seized the opportunity to plunge into talk about Africa and the big game, drawing Ralph subtly into the conversation. It was not easy to get Ralph set a-going, but when he was so, there was found to be much in him wanting expression, and the stranger escaped under shelter of adventures naturally more interesting to the family than any he had to tell. He laughed a little to himself over it as the talk flowed on, and left him with not much pride in the literary profession, which he had in fact only played with, but which had inspired him at moments with a little content in what he did too. These good folk, who were intelligent enough, would have been a little afraid of him, not merely gratified by his acquaintance, had he been really a writer of books. They were much more at their ease to think him only a sportsman like Ralph, and a gentleman at large. When they went into the drawing-room afterwards, the conversation came back to the party of to-morrow, and to the pretty widow in the cottage, of whom Mrs. Wradisley began to talk, saying they would leave the flowers till Mrs. Nugent came, who was so great in decoration. “I thought,” said Ralph, “this widow of yours--was not to be here.”